


lube and determination

by bleep0bleep



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Christmas, Falling In Love, Fisting, Fluff, Holidays, M/M, Sex Shop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 10:15:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17139899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleep0bleep/pseuds/bleep0bleep
Summary: It's a holiday classic: homesick boy wants to make a pumpkin pie while studying abroad, boy realizes the only place to find vegetable shortening is a sex shop, and boy makes fool of himself in front of other boy.





	1. lube

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by a [ tumblr post](http://plain-flavoured-english.tumblr.com/post/180358818169/storytime-cooking-in-a-different-country-makes) which hasn't yet been flagged explicit! 
> 
> Happy Holidays! Part one is being posted today, and part two (the sexy part) will be posted tomorrow on Christmas. 
> 
> Special thank you to @ChristheKouk on twitter for helping me with the Greek, and for @mad_madam_m for betaing!

Stiles just wanted to make a pumpkin pie. He didn’t— he didn’t expect this.

Well, he’s already here. He might as well go in.

Stiles takes a deep breath and one more look at the window displays and the mannequins wearing bondage gear and thongs, and then steps inside the sex shop.

A bell jangles merrily as he walks inside. There’s the sounds of classical piano playing somewhere in the background, but otherwise the store seems to be deserted.

Stiles walks pasts aisles of butt plugs and sex toys, all labeled in Greek. He shakes his head, laughing to himself. Maybe he should just get himself a new toy while he’s at it.

No, he should stick to the plan as is.

Stiles keeps scouring the store, but he can’t seem to find an aisle where it might be.

Of course, the only store in all of Athens selling vegetable shortening had to be a sex store.

Stiles loves his study abroad program; he’s having the best time studying classics and mythology, loves the food, loves getting to explore the country and learn about Greek culture. He’s not too bad at the language now, too. It had been an easy choice when he signed up for the fall program last year, freezing his ass off or partying it up on beaches and looking out over sparkling water and pretty white houses with blue doors everyday. It had been no contest, really.

But missing Thanksgiving with his dad—it’s hit Stiles harder than he thought.

So much that he just wanted to make a pumpkin pie. The smell of it baking in the oven, the cinnamonny-clove-pumpkiny-goodness, the flaky crust— he could have a little taste of home.

Stiles found a can of pumpkin puree and most of the other ingredients in a specialty grocery store, but went round town three times before almost giving up on vegetable shortening.

After searching through Skrout, he found one listing in the search engine, but had been surprised when a popup asked him to verify if he was over eighteen.

Apparently, the only place in town that sells what he’s looking for has it classified as a _sex essential._

So now he’s here.

Stiles looks at the wall of toys once more and wanders down the next aisle, which is full of DVDs and books. He almost loses his train of thought and gets distracted by the porn, but no. He’s on a mission. Where the hell is it?

Butter, butter, butter.

Stiles shakes his head. The only butter to be found in town— vegetable shortening in this exact form, to be precise— is used for _fisting._

“Fisting, fisting, fisting,” Stiles mutters to himself, thinking of his classmates off in bars and gallivanting around, some not even in Greece anymore— traipsing all over the UK and coming back late for class, regaling with stories of hookups.

Stiles has not had any luck in the romance department. Not even with any of his fellow exchange students, let alone other kids in the university.

« Χρειάζεστε βοήθεια?»

A voice—deep and almost melodic— speaks up in curious Greek, interrupting Stiles’ sex reverie. He loses his balance, flailing, accidentally knocking over a display of vibrators.

Setting down a textbook is an incredibly beautiful man with a chiseled jaw and sharp cheekbones. Stiles has lamented to Scott so many times about how many hot people are here; literally Greek gods, and yet— and yet— this man just exudes this otherworldly, ethereal beauty.

He’s also giving Stiles the most unamused, flat expression and apparently has been sitting here the whole time at the counter, watching Stiles wander around the shop like a fool.

Stiles blinks—right, he should stop staring, stop it, Stiles— oh right, he asked something. Stiles _is_ getting better at Greek! He actually understood. He’s like, asking if Stiles needs help.

« βούτυρο για fisting? » Stiles asks brightly, hoping he isn’t blushing too much.

The man just stares at him.

«Βούτυρο,» Stiles repeats again. “For fisting,” he adds. “Like, um,” he makes a fist with his hand and demonstrates in the air, but the guy just continues to look him over, like he isn’t sure Stiles is real.

Stiles sighs, trying to remember how to talk about food. What’s the word for pumpkin? Is there a word for pie in Greek? Oh yeah, his classmate had told him to say this one when they went out, it’s fruit related, so maybe it should work. «Την κουνάω την αχλαδια.»

The man’s eyebrows lift up— and what majestic eyebrows they are, and his lips quirk up in amusement, like he wants to laugh.

Stiles snorts. “Okay, go ahead, laugh at me. At least I’m trying!”

The man gives Stiles a half-shrug, and now he’s smiling like he can’t help it. And Stiles can’t stop looking— he’s incandescent, really. Stiles can’t believe he’s been going to bars hoping to meet hot people and he finds this guy hiding in this dusty old shop. Not that he’s having any luck trying to talk to him, anyways.

Stiles admits it: he has no idea what he’s doing most of the time when talking with people. Mostly he’s just figured out what the food words are and pointing menus works for him.

“Are you sure you don’t have any butter? Βούτυρο? For fisting? Like, I’m not actually like, gonna use it for that, not that I don’t— I don’t—” Stiles blushes, and now he’s just rambling to himself. Whatever, it’s not like Adonis here knows what he’s saying anyways. “I mean, I’ve never done it but, like a fist is pretty ambitious, but like, when I think about like the toys I’ve used, it’s not _that_ much thicker, right? I mean I could, probably with enough lube and determination. What do you think?”

«Α, ωραία. Θες να βγούμε για φαγητό πρώτα?»

Stiles has no idea what that means, but he just nods along. “Yeah, okay. I know you probably wouldn’t have it. It’s just a longshot, you know?” He sighs, nods to himself. “I just wanted to make a pumpkin pie. I mean, my mom always made it for Thanksgiving and Christmas and I just really miss my dad and friends and everyone back home, everyone is like ‘study abroad is great, you’ll really find yourself’ but like, it’s more of the same.” Stiles sighs, toeing a display rack filled with condoms, swiveling it to the side and looking at all the funny and cute and themed packaging. “Like I still go to class and study and sure, yeah, the city is gorgeous and there’s all these cool museums and stuff but I’m still awkward, I’m still me, you know? Half the people in my program are like archeological grad students and I don’t know anything of what they’re talking about and most the undergrads here just want to party; I’m just not any of that, man.”

The guy tilts his head, like he’s waiting for Stiles to continue, and Stiles realizes he’s probably been talking his ear off. “Sorry to bother you,” he adds, stepping backwards. “I’m just gonna— yeah.” Stiles turns, hurriedly, and dashes out the door.

He’s only a few steps down the cobbled streets when the door flings open again.

Stiles turns around at the sound, surprised.

The man is even more stunning in the afternoon light; his skin golden, his eyes sparkling with mirth, jawline striking as it catches the last of the sun’s rays, dancing and dappling down the street.

“Hey, wait,” he says, in perfect English. “We have what you asked for, but I wouldn’t use it to make a pie. Uh— I do know where you can get some Crisco, or even actual butter, though.”

Stiles stares. “You— you speak English,” he says, a little faint.

“Yeah. Hi. My name’s Derek.”

The smile stretches ear to ear, and if Stiles thought him absolutely captivating before, it’s got nothing on this. Derek’s face just lights up like the goddamn sun.

Stiles takes the offered hand and shakes it. “Stiles.”

Derek’s hand is warm and soft, and his fingers linger on the handshake, like he doesn’t want to let Stiles go.

“So I take it you’re learning Greek? It wasn’t bad, your accent.”

“Oh. Good,” Stiles says, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks. “But you heard me talk about all the fisting — and the— ambition— I — that was a rhetorical question, actually—”

Derek grins. “It was cute.”

“Cute,” Stiles repeats.

“So you didn’t answer my question,” Derek asks. “I’m free tomorrow night. Or tonight, if you’re available.” He dips his head a little and actually— oh gosh, this beautiful man is blushing too.

What the hell did Derek say? Stiles blinks.

“Dinner,” Derek says with a soft smile. “Or we can go get you that butter. My sister stockpiles it whenever she visits France.”

“Yes!” Stiles finds his voice. It does squeak a little in his eagerness, but _hey._ “Yes, I’d love to go to dinner! And bake pie with you!” All the things, really.  

“Okay,” Derek says, pleased. “Tonight? I can close up the store. We usually don’t get many visitors.”

“Sure!” Stiles can’t believe this is happening.

Derek leans in a little closer and gives him a conspiratorial smile. “And ah, fisting isn’t really a first date question, but we can talk about that in the future if you’d like.”

And he fucking _winks._

 

* * *

 

 

« Χρειάζεστε βοήθεια?» [Can I help you?]

« Την κουνάω την αχλαδια »  [I like to shake the pear tree] Greek euphemism for men having sex with men

«Α, ωραία. Θες να βγούμε για φαγητό πρώτα?» [Oh. That sounds nice. Would you like to go to dinner first?]


	2. determination

[THREE WEEKS LATER]

 

If he was anyone else, if Stiles wasn’t in Greece studying abroad with three weeks left to go, he’d say— this is dating. For sure. He’d already be daydreaming about moving in together and getting a dog and getting married but Derek lives in Athens and Stiles lives in Beacon Hills, California and still has another semester to go before he graduates from BHU.

If he were anyone else, Stiles would say he’s falling in love.

But he’s not. It’s ridiculous. Just because he and Derek have spent a lot of time together—most of it in this bed—doesn’t mean he’s like developing serious feelings here. It’s just sex.

Really good sex.

Never mind that Derek listened intently to all his ramblings and actually asked about his thesis idea for grad school, that Stiles spent Thanksgiving with Derek and his two sisters and _enjoyed_ it, enjoyed being teased and sitting next to Derek, close, enjoying a pie that was made with actual butter and not anything. Never mind how much Stiles loves Derek’s deadpan face and his dry humor and the fact that he’s the only one Stiles has ever met who can trade sarcastic barbs with him back and forth.

And then there was that afternoon laying on the beach together, Stiles’ head on Derek’s warm chest, the afternoon sun warm on their skin. The future had seemed so far away then, nothing but sweet kisses and laughing in the waves, and yet; it had been on Stiles’ mind, the fact that this Greek paradise was only a temporary thing, that soon he’d have to go right back to Beacon Hills’ bitter winter. That Derek was a temporary fling.

Stiles had been trying to be sexy; Derek had started it, kissing him insistently, running his hand down Stiles’ chest, tweaking his nipples right there on the public beach— they’d been alone, or rather, mostly alone, far from any beach-goers and tourists, with just enough of a thrill of maybe getting caught.

Stiles had pulled back and gave Derek his best coy look. “What do you want?” he purred.

“What do I want?” Derek repeated, pulling back, his eyes dark and hooded.

“Yeah. What do you want?” Stiles was trying his hand at dirty talk; he figured he could follow up whatever Derek said with a breathy “Yeah?” and how he’d give it to him. Maybe it’d be like spanking or maybe they could try what Derek had joked about when they met. Something adventurous. Something to spark a conversation about what they could definitely do. Stiles definitely had lots of things he wanted to try, and very limited time left to try them.

Derek sat back on the towel, contemplating. “I suppose… I guess it’s changed over the years. It used to be just to get away. I thought being here, getting away from everything, that it would fix everything.”

Oh. This is— this is not what Stiles was expecting.

Derek gives Stiles a small smile. “A garden, I think.”

“You want a garden? From… life?”

“Well, it would come with a house.  I’d like to live with someone I love. And we’d have a dog, I think.”

Derek looks so shy and vulnerable that when he looks up at Stiles it just takes his breath away.

Derek looks off into the distance into the ocean and shrugs. They don’t talk for a long moment. Stiles knows about his parents and the accident; they’d bonded over dead relatives last week in a heartwrenching conversation. Derek had seemed listless, he’d shrugged and seemed nonchalant when he met Stiles’ friends at the pub, drifting through Europe, doing odd jobs, and then landing back in Greece and minding his uncle’s shop. There was such a difference between the carefree playboy he presented himself as and who he was when he was with Stiles.

 _They’ve talked an awful lot for people who were just in it for sex,_ a small voice in Stiles’ head reminds him. _It’s because you actually—_

Stiles shuts the voice up by focusing back on Derek. “That sounds amazing,” Stiles says. “I think you can definitely get all those things.”

“Really?” Derek smiles. “What about you? What do you want? You talked about like graduating college and then like, going to police academy so you can be Sheriff like your dad, but you always get so excited when you talk about mythology. Why does grad school have to be a dream for you?”

Stiles shrugs. “I mean, it’s my major. Of course I love it; I’ve got plenty of ideas for a thesis. But it’s not very practical. I can’t like, do anything with it unless I chase down graduate school and maybe become a professor. And I don’t know if I want to do that.”

“What do you really want to do?”

Stiles takes a deep breath; he’s never admitted this to anyone; not to his dad, not to Scott. “I want to write a novel.”

Derek’s grin broadens. “I bet you could. What about?”

Stiles laughs. “Anything. Everything. I always had this idea for like, a space opera, but like, with bisexuals in space, you know?”

“I’d read it. There aren’t enough bisexuals in space,” Derek says sincerely.

They’d kissed then, and Stiles’ mood had shifted from sex to something else; something intimate and vulnerable and new.

He thinks about it now, that warm burst of affection he gets when he sees Derek, and the growing knowledge that Stiles knows exactly what it means.

Well, it’s too late, anyways. It’s funny, Stiles was never good at words, at commitment. Never could figure out how he felt, tripped over those three little words in relationships.

And yet now those words are bursting from his tongue and he wants to tell Derek how he feels so badly.

Derek shifts in bed, pulling Stiles closer like he doesn’t want to let go. Stiles sighs, pressing his face into Derek’s chest and squeezing him tight.  He doesn’t want to leave Derek’s apartment. He knows he has to, but he really, really doesn’t want to.

“Hey,” Derek says, without opening his eyes. “Your flight’s this afternoon. You haven’t even packed yet.”

“You don’t know that,” Stiles retorts.

“Are you?”

“No,” Stiles says reluctantly.

He opens his eyes.

Derek looks gorgeous against the crisp white sheets, looking up through his lashes at Stiles.

“Nnnh,” Stiles says. “I’m spooning you. Just let it happen.”

“You’ve been spooning me all night.”

“Not all night,” Stiles leers.

Derek smiles softly at him. “That part was nice.”

Stiles strokes Derek’s cheek, trying to savor this moment; Derek’s golden skin warm against his touch, his soft beard under his fingers. Derek leans into the touch, closing his eyes. Stiles’ heart leaps; it’s only been three weeks. It should have been just a fling—there’s no way this would work. A flirtation that started in a sex shop, some innuendo, some great sex, but Stiles has seen Derek practically every day since they’d met.

The words burst out of him before Stiles knows what he’s doing. “I love you.”

Derek catches Stiles’ chin in his hand, pulling him in for a gentle kiss. “I love you too.”

“But— how would—”

“It’s okay, Stiles.”

“I could miss my flight—”

“You are definitely not missing your flight,” Derek says.

“I don’t want to say goodbye,” Stiles says. He doesn’t want to leave Derek’s tiny apartment and go back to his dorm and shove all his books and clothes into his duffel. He doesn’t want to fly back to Beacon Hills right in the heart of winter.

“You miss your dad, and Scott and Melissa. Your family. And your friends. And your school. And curly fries. Come on, there’s lots of stuff you want to get home to.”

“But—”

Derek is mumbling something about visiting and long distance, but everything Stiles knows about long distance is that it’s hard, and— “You haven’t even fisted me yet!”

Derek blinks at him, a blush rising in his cheeks. “What?”

“You said we’d talk about it and we never did,” Stiles says petulantly.

“You actually want to?” Derek asks him slowly.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I’ve never done it before and— with you, I think it’d be special.”

“Oh.” Derek’s cheeks are bright red now, the flush travelling down his neck and to his bare chest.

“Do you want to?” Stiles leans in, raising his eyebrows.

“Stiles, you have to leave today—”

“I know, it’d be nice for you to have me one last time, right? To say goodbye?”

Stiles kisses Derek’s neck, sucking on the hollow of his throat, and Derek gasps, goes pliant in his arms. He’s hyperaware of bare skin on bare skin, the memories of last night flooding through him— and Derek, too, probably.

“Fuck,” Derek moans, and he pulls Stiles forward to meet his lips, drawing Stiles’ bottom lip into his mouth for a deep, persistent kiss.

Stiles pulls the blanket down, giving him access to Derek’s bare skin. He runs his hands down Derek’s broad chest, thumbing past his nipples as he moves downward. Derek’s cock is hard and aching against Stiles’ thigh, and Derek’s already rubbing against his leg.

Stiles presses a kiss to Derek’s neck, then his chest, then kisses down towards Derek’s length, taking it into his mouth and relishing the way Derek arches his back, pushing into Stiles’ mouth like he can’t help himself.

“Stiles,” Derek pleads. “Wait—I thought we were—”

Yeah, Stiles did have a plan, but Derek is beautiful and giving him pleasure is way too much fun. He alternates between hard and fast and slow and wet, enjoying himself thoroughly, memorizing each sweet languorous sound Derek makes, right up until Derek comes, spurting hot down Stiles’ throat. He swallows with satisfaction, looking up through his lashes at Derek, who’s still shaking.

“You went down on me for hours last night,” Derek says, panting. “I can’t believe you—”

“Mmhm,” Stiles says, licking his lips.

“I’m going to— I’m gonna get you wet and open and aching for me, and I’m gonna give you what exactly what you need,” Derek says.

“Yeah,” Stiles says breathlessly. Derek hardly ever talks during sex; the fact that he’s doing it now is making his head spin with want.

Derek kisses him and then lays him down on the bed, holding his wrists as he kisses Stiles again. Stiles loves it, loves the feeling of Derek pinning him down, Derek on top of him, pressing him against the bed, spreading his legs open—

“Fuck, Derek—”

Derek’s mouth is merciless. His beard scrapes at the insides of Stiles’ thighs and Stiles loves it, loves the friction of it, loves Derek’s hands pressing into his skin, holding him open for Derek’s tongue to lick him open, leaving Stiles breathless and open and wet and wanting and he can’t bear it.

“Please, Derek, I need—”

Derek pauses with a wet kiss at Stiles’ hole, and looks up, his lips wet and glistening, his whole face flushed pink with exertion. “And what do you need, Stiles?”

“You! Finger me, fuck me, fist me, _anything,_ please!”

Derek smirks at him and presses a finger inside Stiles; it’s achingly good, Derek’s fingers are thick and long but they’re not enough. Please, more,” he begs.

Derek adds another finger and starts fucking Stiles with them, crooking them inside and starting a steady rhythm. It’s good, and Stiles bears down on them, wanting more and more. Stiles can visualize himself, spread out and completely debauched, fading hickeys left from Derek’s insistent mouth on his neck and chest, naked and wanton and fucking himself on Derek’s fingers, and it turns him on like nothing else.

“Ready for more?”

“Please.”

Derek withdraws his fingers, leaving Stiles empty and aching. He watches Derek reach under his bed for something, and he’s unscrewing—

“Are you serious right now?” Stiles asks, sitting up. “You’ve had the fucking fisting butter this whole time?”

Derek shrugs. “It doesn’t chafe. I used it all the time on myself and my toys.”

And what an image that is, Stiles imagining Derek lubing up a thick—

Derek kisses him. “I’m going to make this so good for you.”

Stiles starts to respond but can only moan as Derek starts slicking him up, spreading him open with his fingers.

It’s absolute torture.

It feels so good.

Stiles loses track of what he says, a litany of _Derek_ and _more_ and _please_ and _oh, God_ and who knows what else, just Derek slowly splitting him open, adding more and more fingers.

“I can take more,” Stiles exhales, gripping the sheets. “How many— how many is that?”

“Four,” Derek says. He kisses Stiles on the inside of his thigh, a soft, sweet press of lips that somehow is too much for Stiles to handle.

He trembles.

“Derek,” Stiles says, holding onto his name like a lifeline.

“I’ve got you,” Derek says. “Ready?”

Derek’s fist is hot and tight inside him, and his other hand finds Stiles’ own and squeezes. Stiles holds on tight, and it’s so good, he’s falling apart and Derek’s got him, holding him through it. He been on the edge for so long that when he comes, it’s all he can do to let pleasure course through his body as he shudders.

Derek eases out of him slowly, and then holds him in his arms, pressing soft kisses to Stiles’ forehead as he comes back to earth.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles wakes up to the sound of harsh beeping. “Uh, five more minutes.”

“Absolutely not,” Derek says. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride back to your dorm. You’ve got an hour to pack and then catch the bus with the other students to the airport.”

Oh. Right. Home.

Stiles gets up; he feels wrung out, sore, but highly satisfied. He smiles stupidly at Derek; he can’t think of anything else except how much he loves him.

Derek gives him a fond kiss. “Come on,” he says.

The ride back to the dorms is a blur; Stiles remembers the sunset, Derek’s green-gray eyes, a soft kiss goodbye. He packs hastily, shoving his clothes into his suitcase and duffel, packs his laptop and all his toiletries, and then he’s on the bus, listening to his professor talk about life changing experiences. Stiles barely remembers any of it, nor the airport security line or boarding the plane itself.

It isn’t until he takes a cup of coffee from the flight attendant and draws a long sip when Stiles fully understands what’s happening.

“Oh no,” he groans, reality falling down around him.

 

* * *

 

It’s snowing in Beacon Hills. Dad holds him tight, and Stiles exhales, hugging him back. He’s missed his Dad so much.

A part of his heart sinks; he misses Derek now. But long distance shouldn’t be too bad, right?

“How was Greece? Look at you, you don’t look a bit tanned at all,” Dad says, shaking his head. “Got more freckles though, I see.”

“Da-ad,” Stiles complains, but there’s no heat in it.

It’s good to be back in his house, in his old room. Stiles sleeps like a log, wakes up to a flurry of snow coming down outside his window. It’d be a pain to drive in, but he doesn’t have anywhere to go just yet. School won’t start again till the new year, and Stiles is pretty much done anyways. He flops back on his bed, thinking about graduation and the police academy this summer, and then thinks about what Derek said about his novel.

Well, Stiles only is taking two classes in the spring. He could have time…

He opens his laptop and begins to write.

 

* * *

 

 

“Bacon, eggs, pancakes,” Dad says, pilling them all onto a plate in front of Stiles.

“Thanks, Dad,” Stiles says. “You haven’t been eating like this everyday when I’ve been gone, have you?”

“Of course not,” Dad says. “This is a special occasion.”

‘Mhm,” Stiles draws out, taking a bite. “So, Christmas plans?”

“Melissa says Scott will be back tomorrow afternoon and then it’s Christmas on Friday with all of us at their house.”

“Yeah!” Stiles mumbles through pancakes. “The McCallinski’s back and better than ever!”

Dad coughs. “Just because Melissa and I— we aren’t changing our last names.”

Stiles chuckles. He and Scott came up with the portmanteau when they were seven. It was ridiculous then and especially ridiculous now that their parents are actually dating.

“I’m off to the station,” Dad says, adjusting his uniform as he heads out the door. “It’s good to have you back, kid.”

“It’s good to be back,” Stiles says, smiling halfheartedly.

He does laundry and more laundry, raids the pantry and fridge and throws out a ton of unhealthy food. Stiles checks his email once, twice, three times, but he hasn’t heard back from Derek.  Maybe that long _I miss you_ email was too much. Maybe Derek had some time to reflect and he thought Stiles was just another fling and didn’t mean anything anyway.

Stiles sighs, flopping on his bed.

Outside, it looks like a winter wonderland; houses glowing against the snow with colorful lights, and their neighbors are playing Christmas music.

Stiles stares at the ceiling, listening to Mariah Carey intone about all she wants for Christmas, thinking about how he can drag himself into the mood.

The doorbell rings.

Stiles scrambles downstairs and flings open the door.

He stares.

“Derek?”

“Hi, Stiles,” Derek says sheepishly. There’s snowflakes in his hair, and he’s wearing a soft maroon turtleneck sweater underneath a leather jacket, and he looks _good._

“What are you— how did you know — what?”

“You talked about Beacon Hills a lot,” Derek offers. “I said I was from here too, remember? On Thanksgiving?”

Stiles does not remember, but then again, on Thanksgiving, Cora had challenged him to a drinking contest and he had way too much. Derek had carried him back to the dorm.

“We still have a house here,” Derek says. “It’s ah, not much, but I thought about fixing it up.” He looks down at his feet awkwardly. “We actually met, a long time ago. I didn’t put it together until you told me your dad was the Sheriff, but uh-- you gave me your Reeses.”

Stiles stares. He remembers, being a kid, sharing a candy with the sad dark-haired older boy at the station.

“So you’re back?” Stiles asks.

Derek flushes and steps closer, his warm gray-green eyes flickering with focus. “I thought it was time to stop running away. And if I wanted those things—  a house and a garden and a dog — with someone I love— I should go for it.”

“Oh,” Stiles says faintly. “Good. I’m happy for you.”

Derek smiles at him. “Are you going to invite me in?”

Stiles grins. “Well, I would, but if you step just a tad to the left, you’d be standing under the mistletoe, and then I could give you a proper hello.”

Derek laughs. “Of course.”

Stiles kisses him, and it feels too good to be true. “I can’t believe you’re here. And that we met in the first place when I was just rambling about sex.”

“I don’t know,” Derek said, good humoredly. “To be fair, you did ask me what my opinion was on your ability to take—”

Stiles drags Derek inside before nosy neighbors can hear anything else. “I’ll show you my abilities,” he says with a grin.

Derek laughs.

“You’re stuck with me now, forever.”

“Good,” Derek says with a soft smile, and Stiles’ heart fills with joy.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm on [twitter](http://twitter.com/bleep0bleep), [tumblr](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com) and [pillowfort](http://pillowfort.io/bleep0bleep) if you wanna say hi!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm on [twitter](http://twitter.com/bleep0bleep), [tumblr](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com) and [pillowfort](http://pillowfort.io/bleep0bleep) if you wanna say hi!


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